Chapter 2 Gianna
Gianna
FOUR YEARS AGO
‘Jace.’ I knock on the side of Pa’s old Mustang.
My brother’s legs are hanging out from underneath it, his jeans ruined by smears of grease and oil. I lean against the hood of the car, admiring the navy-blue rally stripes against the gunmetal grey. Jace has upgraded lots of things since the car became his, but I’m glad he kept Pa’s paint job.
Beside him are tools and dirty cloths left over from last night, when I watched him lift a new motor into the engine bay using a crane.
‘Ma made pancakes,’ I say.
He rolls out on a garage creeper, spilling a container of thick black liquid in the process.
‘Shit.’ He scrambles to set the plastic bottle upright, but it’s already added another oil stain to the driveway. He wipes his hands on his jeans before looking up at me with a sigh.
‘Again?’ he asks, golden-brown eyes wide. ‘That’s the second time this week.’
In the shed, on Jace’s worktable, is a picture of Pa when he was about the same age. Right now, I could swear I’m looking at that grainy black and white photo. Jace is the perfect clone of Pa. Like, seriously, the Brooks gene came through strong.
‘I’m not eating her food on my own,’ I say sternly.
Jace scrunches his face before sliding back under the vehicle. ‘Give me two minutes.’
I roll my eyes and crouch down, tilting my head sideways. The glint of his necklace catches my eye, a chain carrying a solid silver bar with the word Bullitt engraved on the front. Pa gave it to him for his twelfth birthday when he started go-kart racing. It hasn’t left his neck since.
‘I mean it,’ I say. ‘If you don’t come and help me, I’ll tell Ma about The Prank.’
He grumbles a response which I assume is agreement, but it’s drowned out by the clanging of metal.
The air is cold this morning, but I take my time heading back into the house. The screen door squeaks when I enter, my eyes immediately stinging from the smoke. Ma is decorating the kitchen counter with plates full of pancakes, fruit and what I think is meant to be pandesal.
She stands by the stove in a white dress – obviously the perfect colour to wear in the kitchen – that’s barely covered by a cornflower-blue apron.
Her jet-black bob is held back by the Prada reading glasses perched on top of her head, and she smiles proudly.
She doesn’t cook often, thank god, because she really sucks at it, but she’s been trying more lately.
‘Is your kuya on his way, honey?’
‘Yep,’ I answer, popping the p.
‘I tried a new recipe. The pancakes are protein-filled.’ She points her spatula toward the mahogany wood table in the open-plan dining room. ‘I already stacked a plate for you.’ She hums melodically, completely oblivious to the choking hazard she has created.
Sitting down, I hug a knee to my chest before picking up a fork.
My morning text from Monz buzzes through.
I don’t even have to check that it’s 7.15 am; she’s always right on schedule.
I quickly shoot off a reply, letting her know I’ll meet her by the main library, as I do every morning, before tossing my phone aside and coming back to ‘breakfast’.
I poke the creation once. It’s rock hard.
I manage to cut a piece and douse it in maple syrup, hoping that will help. It doesn’t.
‘What classes do you have today?’ Ma stacks another plate. I’m glad it’s not mine.
‘Art,’ I answer, mid-chew, the taste of ash consuming my mouth.
‘Still? If you changed your major, why hasn’t your schedule been adjusted for real classes?’
There’s a moment of silence as I attempt to swallow. My throat is dry, and the lump won’t go down. I reach for the full water glass and feel sweet relief wash over me as the mass works its way down.
‘Art is a real class.’ My voice is hoarse from the assault.
‘Honey, you can play with your paints at home. Your brother is graduating this year, so why don’t you transfer to Empire City University?
Then I can keep an eye on your classes, we could even have lunch together sometimes …
maybe I could pull a few strings in the economics department.
I don’t want you to become a homeless artist, starving on the streets. ’
How many times can we have this same conversation?
I roll my lips between my teeth, contemplating my options. Do I want to argue with her today? I could probably act out the entire conversation to come. Maybe I should just nod and tune her out, but then she’ll take it as agreement and never let me forget it.
Screw it. I release my lips with a smack.
‘We’ve spoken about this, Ma.’ I use the side of my fork to saw off more pancake. ‘I don’t want to go to ECU. Besides, it’s only October. I still have till December to see if my artworks get any recognition, then you don’t need to worry about paying for a thing.’
‘Gia,’ she draws out my name sternly. ‘Did you change your major or not?’
‘I … plan to.’ It’s a lie. I’m loving my creative arts classes. In fact, I actually have to study a few teaching courses next semester. Which sounds way better than being taught economics by your mother.
‘Good, because I’m not paying all that tuition for you to splatter paint on a canvas.’
‘What is your problem?’ I drop the silverware, letting it clatter against my plate. ‘Is it really the money? Is my tuition actually costing that much?’
‘It’s not that we can’t afford it, Gia, but it looks good to have a scholarship on your resume. Your brother has had a scholarship since freshman year.’
‘For basketball, Ma.’
‘And look where that’s got him.’ She smiles proudly.
I’m not jealous of my brother. He’s going places, that’s for sure, but the thing is, Jace is playing for a national team next year because he worked hard and has an insane amount of skill. Not because he had a scholarship.
My earlier resolve is quickly withering as I stare down at the overcooked pancakes, trying to keep my emotions at bay. Arguing with her is futile, but when I say nothing, she sighs. Loudly. The disappointment is almost as suffocating as the smoke.
The screen door squeaks and Jace saunters over to the sink to wash the grease from his hands.
‘Looks great, Ma,’ he says with an enthusiasm that doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘You shouldn’t tire yourself out like this before work, though. Gia and I can sort ourselves out.’
I fight back the smile threatening to form at his attempt to convince Ma to stop cooking.
‘Don’t be silly! I love cooking for you two.’ She pats him on the back. ‘Besides, I feel like you’re never home anymore. Help yourself.’
Jace grabs one of the monstrosities from the steaming stack, rolls it up and inhales it. He doesn’t even wince when the crunching sound echoes in the room.
‘I’d best get going,’ Ma announces, wiping her hands on a chequered tea towel. ‘Try and convince your sister to take up a language? Or physics, like you.’
I bite my tongue. Literally. It’s either biting on the soft flesh or back at her, and Jace hates it when we argue.
He fills a glass of water and downs the entire thing before filling it up again. ‘She doesn’t need a second language. Her art is universal.’
I look up and he gives a reassuring wink. Always the one to defuse the tension. Such a Pisces.
‘Well, I just want what’s best.’ Ma gives a resigned sigh as she removes her apron. She kisses Jace’s cheek and the top of my head before grabbing her handbag from the side table. ‘Have a good day and make good decisions.’
Just as I think we’re home free, she turns back, pointing a perfectly manicured finger that sternly bounces between us before settling on Jace. A small breath of relief leaves my lips.
‘I mean it,’ she says, ‘If I get another call from security down at the speedway for your little … heists …’ she scowls at the word, ‘you’re grounded.’
Jace lets out a nervous giggle. ‘They’re not heists—’
‘Hay naku, ang batang ito. I don’t want to hear about you anywhere near that speedway. You know how I feel about that place. You know what it’s taken from me. Do you understand?’
Jace’s grin melts away. Loss weighs down like a heavy blanket. It’s not just what was taken from her. Pa was taken from all of us.
‘Yeah.’ All trace of humour, sarcasm and light is drained from Jace’s voice. ‘Loud and clear, Ma.’
She lowers her finger before glancing over to me, brows raised. ‘I want you to pick up an extracurricular for your transcript. A real extracurricular.’
With that, she turns, heels clacking against the tiles until she’s out the front door. We wait until we hear her car leave the driveway before we begin our routine, Jace throwing the cremated remnants of his pancakes in the outside trash while I wash the dishes and leave them to dry on the rack.
He ruffles my hair when he returns. ‘Good work, kid. I didn’t think her pancakes could get any worse.’
‘She said she added protein to them this time.’ I pull a disgusted face, the ashy taste still coating my tongue. ‘I’m glad you came in when you did. She was hounding me about my major.’
‘She just “wants what’s best”.’ Jace makes air quotations with his fingers.
‘Easy for you to say. You’re the favourite.’
‘Ma doesn’t have favourites,’ he argues.
My mouth drops in disbelief. ‘She so does! And it’s you. I have distinctions in all my classes, she’s just mad that they’re not in Economics. You’re out doing risky shit and all you get is a threat to be grounded. She’d never actually go through with it, either.’
‘Yeah, well, just make sure you don’t even mention The Tropics around her. Please. With these new mods, I’m going to win every race.’ He bites his tongue with a grin that screams trouble.
‘Why do you do it, anyway?’ I ask.
‘Do what?’
‘Racing. The speedway was one thing, but The Lost Tropics is another.’
There’s a hint of secrecy swirling in his mischievous gaze, like he’s not sure if he wants me to know. ‘What do you know about The Tropics?’
‘Well, I know it’s illegal.’ I overpronounce the word.
‘Yeah.’ Jace shrugs, and the look he had slips off with it. He turns his head to gaze out the window. ‘Maybe you’ll get it one day, kid.’ His words come out quieter.